


made for each other (what a naïve idea)

by AnnaWritesFiction



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, First Time, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 11:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaWritesFiction/pseuds/AnnaWritesFiction
Summary: It wasn’t their conscious decision, really, and neither is sure who did it, but the matching wedding bands miraculously materialized while they were having, well, intercourse. They were both very insistent about not minding them, with the sort of forced insouciance one does not mind, for example, inheriting millions from their seemingly penniless grandmother.(In which an angel and a demon bask in the afterglow, Aziraphale gets philosophical, and Crowley gets just a little bit jealous.)





	made for each other (what a naïve idea)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shamelessly random ficlet I wrote as a companion piece to an ineffable husbands sketch. I own nothing but my mistakes.

“Looking back, I think they should have seen it coming. _This_, I mean.”

Aziraphale gestures between them, at the few inches of air heavy with the smell of sweat and new beginnings. His face looks decidedly un-cherubic, framed by a shock of disheveled white-blond curls, propped on the plumpness of a palm like an artwork on a pedestal. Around the rotund geography of his corporeal form, black silk is pooling with the promise of naked skin.

_My best friend_, Crowley thinks, and then, with a breath that hitches on the way out: _My lover. _

“By ‘_They’_ I take it you mean Upstairs and Downstairs? God, perhaps?”

The lips he’d been kissing not long ago tremble into a tiny smile. They are so thin, barely a line of flesh to taste or bite at, and yet they never fail to look shockingly appealing, a wet invitation under the adorable upturn of the angel’s nose.

“Our sides. Ex sides. You know, dear boy, God, I think She might have planned for this to happen all along. I mean, pragmatically speaking, and in retrospect of course, there seems to be no other rational explanation for-_mmmph_”-

Crowley pulls back as fast as he lunged to capture Aziraphale’s mouth with his own. The expression he wears is so giddy it verges on embarrassing. “Ssssorry.” he lisps, even though sorry isn’t even remotely what he is. ‘isss just that, you tend to talk _so much_, and when you ssstart _my heart_ _does funny things_ and, due to recent developments, I can actually do _this_”- another lunge forward, a mingle of breaths, a touch of tongues-”whenever I want. Please go on.”

“That was, frankly, quite distracting, Crowley. Anyway. Think about it. You have an angel, and a demon, on Earth, left to their own devices. They are the only immortal, supernatural entities among billions of humans-”

“Well, yes, that was the job description, representative of Hell, representative of Heaven, thwart each other, the occasional smiting, perhaps, if you count the first few decades. Is there something on my face?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My face, angel. Why are you looking at me like that? ‘Ss unnerving.”

The blush spreads from ear to angelic ear instantaneously. “Your eyes, dear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your pupils blown this wide before. And you’ve got..erm. Intercourse, written all over your face.”

“Ugh, don’t call it _intercourse_, for Somebody’s sake! Nobody calls it bloody _intercourse.” _

“_Flagrante _sounds rather wrong.”

“Well, that’s because nobody calls it _flagrante_ either, you, insufferable, impossible”-

“Sex? Lovemaking?” The bastard is actually wiggling his eyebrows. “_Fucking?_”

“And to think that this supernatural entity right here, up until a few hours ago, was all, _Oh, but Crowley, we cannot!, _and, my personal favorite, _Goodness me, what if God is watching?_”

Aziraphale pouts. _My better half,_ Crowley thinks, and, with a warm feeling spreading its roots somewhere in his stomach, _My husband_. Trying hard to make it seem accidental, he steals a peek at the ring. He’s been fiddling with it all night long, feeling the engraved letters brush against his fingernails, appreciating the solidity of it.

(It wasn’t their conscious decision, really, and neither is sure who did it, but the matching wedding bands miraculously materialized while they were having, well, intercourse. They were both very insistent about not minding them, with the sort of forced insouciance one does not mind, for example, inheriting millions from their seemingly penniless grandmother.)

“Oh, do let me finish. I was saying that, as the only immortal beings on a planet of mortals, we were practically bound to fall in love with each other.”

“You mean, there was no free will involved?” Crowley doesn’t know how to feel about this. On one hand, like the hopeless romantic he will vehemently inform you he is _not_, he finds an odd appeal in the idea of him and Aziraphale being literal soulmates, destined to be together and whatnot. On the other hand, it implies that they had no actual say in any of it.

“Who knows what free will is, dearest. I don’t. Do you?”

“Eve _chose_ the apple.”

“You tempted her.”

“I informed her of her options, thank you very much.”

“Still. She was bound to eat it from the very start. You said so yourself, back when we met, why forbid something and then place it somewhere within reach, complete with a blinking sign that says,_ Do Not Touch?”_

Crowley entertains the thought. Two immortal beings, all alone, with no one to turn to save for each other. And what was the whole, “Hereditary Enemies” business, if you got right down to it, if not a blinking sign that read, _“Do Not Touch_”?

(Such pointed prohibition, any marketing expert worth their salt will tell you, serves to ensure one thing, and one thing alone: _that you, the target audience, will one day wake up with an insatiable, overmastering need to very much Touch The Thing_.)

“You mean, we were each other’s apples?”

“Since Eden, yes.”

Crowley frowns a bit at that.

“By that logic, it could-well. It could have been. _Anyone._”

“Anyone?”

“Yesss. Anyone. It could have been. _Another _demon. And by the very ssssame _logic_, _you_ would have ended up”- the voice fizzles. Crowley is suddenly very interested in the minimalist décor of his bedroom, (_Ours_, he mentally corrects himself. And: _perhaps we should fuck off to the countryside_.) looking from the stolen artworks on the wall to the floor that currently boasts a beautiful display of their discarded clothes.

“My dear, look at me.”

“You’re laughing.”

“It’s funny.”

“Issss not.”

“It is. You are six thousand years old, yet, sometimes, you behave like a child.”

“I do not!”

There are fingers on his shoulders, briefly substituted by a hint of lips. It does a series of progressively embarrassing things to several parts of Crowley’s anatomy that, by all accounts, should no longer be functional.

“There could be no other demon, you silly serpent. Perhaps I didn’t render myself clear enough. I think **_She made us for each other_**.”

Somehow, they’ve sidled closer to one another, making it hard to focus on Aziraphale’s eyes. His breath smells of an assortment of things, wine and international cuisine and incense and just a hint of demon. It’s this olfactory irreverence that has Crowley seal the already meager gap between them, roaming hands and pounding heart and _oh, I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. _

“That’s _disgustingly_ romantic”, he rasps between kisses. The lazy caresses are gradually growing desperate. The room falls silent, except for the rustling of sheets and the occasional sigh. Made for each other. What a naïve idea.

(_His_, Crowley lets the word marinate in his head. And, with a smile pressed against the softness of a hip, **_Mine._**)


End file.
